


The truth being that no one is saved in the end

by prettyfaceswithprettytears



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post Reichenbach, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 03:28:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyfaceswithprettytears/pseuds/prettyfaceswithprettytears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nearly three years later and John still isnt over Sherlocks death and continues to blame it on himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The truth being that no one is saved in the end

**Author's Note:**

> So I was cleaning out my fanfiction folders and I found this old thing and decided that it was actually good enough to post, so I hope you enjoy it!

The thunder cracked and the rain splattered across the window pane. John stared with empty eyes out into the gray world. The weather matched his mood drop for drop, except by now there was no more rain left for John. But the sky would cry for him, show everyone how he felt. It was almost three years since John had let Sherlock take the leap from St. Barts. It was the single most painful thing that had ever happened to him in his lifetime, and John knew what real pain was, what with the war and all. With a heavy sigh he leaned his forehead against the cold glass to let the rain mimic tears on his face. Closed eyes and the pictures flash through his mind. The phone in his hand. The tall frame at the edge of the building. The coat opening like useless, broken wings. A broken body with blood. So much blood. Blurred faces pulling him away from his only friend. John’s eyes flew open, his breath catching in his throat. He felt so empty. His life was no more, now that he had no one to share it with. Shuddering, he pulled himself away from the window and grabbed his coat from the rack by the door. Heavy footsteps followed by an opening door the heavy sound of rain falling into the streets. The slam and John was wandering the empty streets with the water drenching him. The weight of the water pulled his hair flat, dripping into his eyes. But there was no reason that would stop him from where he wanted to go. The road beneath his feet was comforting and familiar in a way that rested on his shoulders hunching him over. The rain was relentless and there was flash of lightning that lit up the whole sky. Up ahead of John were tall pines and shining graves. As if there was a path, John weaved his way through the death to the simple black headstone. The tree guarding it was heavy with rain and the branches drooped, brushing the headstone softly. John looked on, his body rigid, back straight. He opened his mouth to speak but no words could pass his lips. He didn't have anything left to say at this last time by Sherlock’s grave. A whisper of breath before he shut his mouth. A straight line on his face. Perfectly still. His chest rose and fell as he pulled out a ragged scarf from his jacket. John draped the cloth over the wet grave and lightly ran his fingers over the memory. He sharply turned, moving away from Sherlock. He wanted more than anything in the world to reverse time and change the past. The world wasn't a better place with him instead of Sherlock. Walking faster to get away he moved fluidly with a purpose. The ground was slick and John moved too fast. His feet pulled away and the ground rushed up to meet him. He could feel a sharp pain in his right hand and the drops of red mixing with the rain. John stared at the gash for a moment, his palm growing numb, before wiping his hand across his chest, smearing the blood across the black and white shirt he wore. Physical pain was over so fast. But the other tore his mind apart with regret and shame. Physicality. Over quickly. A plan began to form in his mind as he pushed himself to his feet and continued the wet, familiar path back to 221b.

-

The skritch of a rope being tied in a knot. A chair being pulled across hardwood flooring. John stepped up so he could slip the noose around his neck. The fibers itched his skin but that wasnt something John needed to worry about any longer. With a hint of a smile flickering on his face, he was ready.

His eyes were glassy and lifeless even before he stepped down.

-

A slamming door. Sirens wailing in the distance. Sherlock wouldn't let go of the cold body. It had been just barely warm when he found it, so maybe if he held it close enough he could bring his friend back to life. Paramedics and police swarmed around him like little ants, but none of them understood. A bitter tear fell down Sherlock’s cheek and splashed onto John’s. But nothing would happen. Because no one could bring his friend back to life. No such thing as a miracle. Shaking his head and curling his body around the corpse he held on as tight as he could to preserve the feel of his only friend in his arms. Funny how the only time he needed comfort from someone and that someone was dead. Death was something that was not uncommon in his world. But the death of someone he wanted to spend the rest of his life with was like his heart had shattered into millions of pieces and stuck on his insides, too tiny to even see where they were to remove them. Pressing his hand onto the body there was a crinkling noise and Sherlock pulled out a piece of paper from the jacket. On it were these words:

_Sherlock,_

_You died so I could live. But real death can’t be as painful as the day you jumped. I’ve died every day since then. I still wish that you lived. No one deserved to live as much as you did. And if somehow you lived (It’s impossible, I know. I can hear you saying it in my head every time I think of it.) then I’m glad that that’s the way things worked. I left your scarf on your grave. I’d like to be buried next to you. Not in some war veteran cemetery. You would understand that’s not where I really belong. I belong right next to you. My only friend who cared enough to save me. But now it’s time for me to save you, and maybe I’ll see you again someday in another life. The only way to do that is to do what you have done and sacrifice myself for the good of those around me. So I hope that we can see each other, Sherlock. You were the only friend that I really had. I’m going to miss you._

_Your friend,_

_John._

A small smile ran along Sherlock’s lips. John was the only person who would ever understand him. Maybe even one day they would see one another again, even though it was impossible. Just this one time, Sherlock allowed himself to feel totally human and believe that there was a truth to the words on the page. Laying the body down, he let himself wander out the door and down a familiar path that lead to his gravestone where a ragged blue scarf sat waiting. Lifting it, Sherlock wrung out the water before carefully wrapping it around his neck where it would stay for as long as it took to find John again.


End file.
